Welcome back, trypto-fans. Good God but I'm fat from holiday gluttony, stuffed with the fat of the land and the fat of the waters and the fat of the skies and the fat of the dark, cold void of space. But as I peer out from under the multifarious fat-folds a-drooping off my brow, what do I see upon returning but that my ole pal Chet Farmer has got himself engaged down there in Texas. Them's good news. Go forth and congratulate the boy in his bloggy comment section, because that's how we felicitate nowadays. Or send him some bourbon. Cheaper the better. He'll like that. Can't wait for the ceremonies, since it will be good to see the expected re-conglomeration of a bunch of people who are all going to be much more stout of belly and thin of hair (or thick of inappropriate hair) than I remember back in our salad days. And by salad days, I mean the days when we smoked a lot of salad. Now that we're all so mature and stable and settled, it's fortunate that I just received a shipment of my old analog photo albums, as therein are one or two choice images of Chet that will bring back some excellent repressed memories of times gone by. Watch this space. Meanwhile, the bride and groom should consult with Sat'n Spurs for the best in cowperson wedding couture. May I suggest the blue denim wedding gown?

Such a shorty-short week, I'm in love with the world all over again. Nothing going on. I sent a package to Belgium, if you know what I mean -- that is, I sent a package to Belgium -- and that's my workday finished. Now to telescope zero tasks out to fill the rest of the day, and voila, I'm done. Nothing further this week, and still plodding through the domain change process. With luck, all the screaming and spurting will be over by next week. Watch this space, or the space right above this space, for news on what other spaces to watch. Meanwhile:

And speaking of robots, who th' hell thought it was a good idea to make cybercucarachas? How long before roach-bots appear under the fridge, answering your squirts of Raid with a few blasts from a rail gun? (via)

Several from the Heathen: The endearing and hideous and cute infantipedes, sampled above. Then this idiotic game of dragging the red box to avoid the blue boxes, which is far more diverting than it has any right to be. Damned blue boxes, can't they just leave me alone? And lastly, the sad, tragic, and wince-making case of "Molatar Seth Pyrargent," an individual who wants to be a dragon. But he also is a Christian. And he's not into Dungeons & Dragons, because those damned elitist satanic gamer types wouldn't let him be a "lawful good red dragon/silver dragon hybrid, an arch-mage, and an emperor." And an astronaut. And a fire truck. You know you've hit rock bottom when roleplaying gamers are shunning you as too freaky.

In the tradition of various subservient chickens, presidents, and what have you, enjoy the Virtual Bartender, who does no particular bartending, though she will "show me your tattoo," "dance topless," and "have a pillow fight," among a few other commands I'll leave you to discover. (via)

And lastly, sure to hit the usual sweet spot between massive outrage and huge profits: JFK Reloaded, a 3D simulation that allows you, for a mere ten bucks, to endlessly recreate -- as in, perform -- the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. You can also frag Jackie, Governor Connally and his wife, and the motorcade driver. You get points for hewing as close to Lee Harvey Oswald's original trajectories, and there's a cash prize for the first person to precisely duplicate Oswald's work. File under: E, for Eeeewwwwww. (via)

... and I'm reeeeady for love! Chelsea, you're starting to look kinda hott, I must admit. But you need to be more careful about the kind of man you let under your umbrella, if you know what I mean. As for the rest of you, let's move on to what you came here for.

From minds similarly inclined but with opposite gender attractions to those who brought you the boyfriend arm pillow, now you can thrill to the dismembered embrace of the girlfriend lap pillow. Creep-out levels at maximum. (via)

Men with long hair? I was once one of you. Now I am shorn and shamed, like most of my generation. Even at my best, I could never hope to match this month's "Samson," but it does my heart good to know there are men out there keepin' it real. Real, real long. (via)

Here's a nice collection of corporate signage meant to inspire fear and confusion in wage slaves, courtesy of distopia.com. They're just one letter away from perfection, poor dears. (via)

Do I really need to say anything more than shape-shifting robots? Have your neighbors been replaced by them yet? Have YOU? (via)

Lastly, another product of accidental surfing. I still don't know what the Church of Fear is all about. Neo-fascist crypto-radicals? Parody of same? Both? They are German, so the line between fascist parody and fascist reality may be thinner than elsewhere. But I commend any group whose chief demonstrative weapon appears to be pole-sitting ("ORGANIZE POLE-SITTING EVENTS THROUGHOUT THE WORLD! SIT DOWN AND HAVE FEAR!") while also inquiring "ARE YOU PLANNING A TERRORIST ACT? When? Where? Why? Stand in [sic] for your right to personal terror!". Hey, I have plenty of personal terror, and I don't anticipate escaping it much in the next four years.

Big changes a-comin' round this ranch. The earth will shake, skies will bleed, dogs will lick themselves ... AND each other. It's all going to go down real street, yo.

Well, really nothing all that dramatic. Just some reorganization, recalibration, and likely redesignization of Diztopia. In fact, as soon as I can get the domain out of the tenebrous clutches of Network Solutions and into more friendly territory -- supposedly by early next week -- you can find this heap of refuse at diztopia.com, which I've actually owned for over a year now but never bothered to implement.

The TypePad mandarins assure me that one should still be able to locate all content at diztopia.typepad.com, but I trust them not. So look at diztopia.com if everything else appears to have vanished. In related news, I was disturbed to learn of distopia.com, since that entity obviously makes me eat its dust, cartoon-wise. But I remain so much sexier, don't you think? Of course, there's also this, which is still online despite being abandoned back when I started this blog. Also this, which is equally dormant. All things considered, I claim mastery not only of my domain but all related homonyms. More later.

Meantime, check out William Georgiades' recent pieces in mediabistro, here and here. He's great at depicting the endless merry-go-round of (often simultaneous) back-stabbing and ass-kissing that is modern publishing, and I'm all too personally familiar with the situations he describes.

Went to the Death Lunch for the fired coworker previously mentioned. We dined at Pasquale's Rigoletto, a highly generic Italian place on Arthur Avenue. Arthur Avenue was once the heart of the Bronx's Little Italy, but this district has largely de-Italofied just like its analog in Manhattan. There are still a few old dons and little nonnas toddering around, but for the most part the neighborhood has been rapidly assimilated by Albanians. There are almost as many burek joints as pizza parlors now ... in fact, many of the former pizza parlors have seamlessly transformed into burek joints, usually with no change of name (or even taking the word "Pizza" off their name).

But there are still several old-school neighborhood Italian eateries, and Pasquale's is one. Pretty generic main dishes of pasta with marinara ten thousand ways; bruschetta and cheese was surprisingly crunchy and good. Otherwise forgettable. Since this meal commemorated a workplace termination, it was somewhat subdued. I was actually hoping for a little more in terms of bitterness fireworks, but nothing really manifested beyond a couple awkward silences. Oh well. I guess if you're foolish enough to come to one of these things after getting fired, what can you do but act nice and lap up the pity?

As for myself, I lapped up a few glasses of red wine and thus am too sleepy and unmotivated to post anything other than this krap. At least it was all on the Pope's dime, as the university picked up the tab. Thanks JP2! And now, to hide under the desk and nap in the venerable G. Costanza tradition.

Yes, it's a dumb joke, and poorly executed. But at least it killed an hour at the office. And now, time to go downstairs and raid the candy jar. It's supposed to be just for the interns, but what's theirs is mine I say.

Such was the lesson learned this past weekend at Hogs & Heifers, one of the bars that inspired Coyote Ugly (establishment and shit-film) and the requisite potty-mouthed barmaids, singin' out to country songs, women jumpin' on the bar crap. Not the above fish in particular, though it woulda been better as an actual Big Mouth Billy Bass. (Side note: wouldn't it be killer if you could make your Big Mouth Billy say anything you want? Ah, but you can. Glory be.)

Anyway, things were not off to a good start at H&H when they reamed us for a $5 cover charge at the Meatpacking District's faux-dive of choice. But I had guests -- one out-of-towner, one new immigrant -- so I thought it might be a lark. In we go. When I ask for three beers, the barmaid growls, "You wanna drink like a pussy, get a six-pack and go home. Order me a shot!"

Now there was a time when I thought this was cute. Yes yes yes, a little raunchy joust with the liquor slattern! Tally ho! But I just waved her away. "Sure, drink your shot or whatever it is," I said. "I don't care. Just bring three beers." Whereupon she turned on her heel and marched away, disgusted and most assuredly not toward the beers.

Right. So Yours Chumply scans around, looking for someone else to service me. I should mention that this was the period in the evening when continued consumption of alcohol was very important. Very, very important. I honestly didn't care if the barmaid needed to engage in the stage business with the shot of lemon juice or whatever it was in the special bottle that only bartenders drank from. I understood that I had to throw down a few extra bucks for that bit o' foolishness. But that didn't mean I had to watch and applaud and/or hoot. Not to mention that of the few ladies who'd gotten on the bar so far, none were of the sort that improved from an anterior view. And perhaps it would have been more rewarding if one could respond with equal venom, like "Shut it and get the beers, you cheap slut! If I want your mouth open, I'll see you in the alley with my fly unzipped and a roll of food stamps."

Ha ha ha! (The foregoing is dedicated to our female readers. Thanks ladies!) No really, of course, saying such a thing would get me no beer at best and pummeled by the bouncerati at worst. So instead I ignored her, and she ignored me, till my continued, glowering presence brought her back, where our respective routines were repeated verbatim. Except this time, she slouched over to the taps and brought the beers. I asked the damage, she said "Eighteen bucks plus tip!" Ah heh heh. I left the $18 plus a buck apiece for the three beers. It seemed impossible that I should be expected to tip for the "shot" the bartender served herself.

But the fun didn't end there. After worming our way over to the wall and observing the unimpressive spectacle, FPP takes off his coat and hangs it on a wall-mounted fish. Now bear in mind this fish didn't even look real, and if it was, it had seen better days even long after it was dead. Fins were broken off, eyes were gouged out, and it was caked with grime and dust. Nevertheless, this transgression brought a bouncer over almost immediately. "Don't hang your coat on the fish, man!" he bellowed, eyes bulging. This was a member of the Fat Bouncer subspecies. Fat Bouncers are almost always stationed inside for crowd control. Fat Bouncers aren't nearly as threatening as Giant Bouncers, who are usually placed on doors and are the sort who can palm your head with their small hand.

FPP laughed and removed his coat from the fish. Fat Bouncer retreated to his bar-side perch. About a minute later, FPP proceeded to hang his coat on a wall-mounted hubcap, reasoning logically that it was a fish-protection rule, not a no-hanging-coat rule. Wrong. Fat Bouncer came charging back. "If you can't hang your coat on the fish, what makes you think you can hang it there? Don't be a fuckin' asshole!" FPP laughed some more and took his coat down, then asked, "You got a hook, then?" Fat Bouncer snarled and retreated.

Well, that couldn't be the end of it, could it? FPP decided to try and get on Fat Bouncer's good side by reporting on another patron sitting on the pool table. Myself and third man GVB held up our digicams, ready to capture FPP's inevitable beatdown. In retrospect, the resulting ejection may have been caused by our expectant shutterbugging as much as FPP's insolence, as Fat Bouncer reportedly complained loudly about us as he told FPP to fuck off and get out. FPP dutifully turned and exited via the side door with Fat Bouncer in moderately hot pursuit, as GVB and I strolled out the front.

We found FPP whistling cheerfully outside, as Fat Bouncer peeked out the door and heartily declared that we should all go get hit by a bus. FPP returned fire with some unsolicited weight-loss advice, and that was that. The Hogs & Heifers theater project is kinda funny at first, but when it becomes so carefully prescribed that you can't even hang your coat on a hubcap, the place just turns into TGI Fridays with halter tops and dirty talk.

It's rainy and cold, but I am warmed by consumption of Pugsley's Pizza. This is a college pizza joint a couple blocks from my office run by a certifiably insane Italian guy. He appears to love life and his role in it more than any man I've met in New York, so it's always a pleasure to go there, even if his pies are too greasy. He's a constant jabbering font of nonsense about life, love, and pizzas he's made for other people. Occasionally he strikes a gong for no reason, which usually leads to complaints from his long-suffering but tolerant wife. Today it was slow, so he fired up the karaoke machine and played saxophone as the vocal track of Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight." When I left, he was singing another karaoke song in Italian in a duet with some kind of junior mobster dude. Paradiso!

Weekly Best o' Screenhead - from the Flash-gamesmiths who brought you Grow, here now is Pelpet, where one directs a fatally curious and downward-climbing pet-creature; a tasteless and worthless Shockwave diversion correctly titled Spank the Fat Guy; a truly bizarre and fascinating collection (sampled above) of Dr. Seuss's wartime cartooning; an artist's conceptions of unsung local superheroes; and from the Things I Never Thought I'd Say Department, a McDonald's commercial starring a sexy Ronald McDonald (from Japan of course).

Our neighbors to the north are willing to help lovelorn lefties escape four more years of eeeeee-vil. They'll even go so far as to Marry an American. (via)

Here's a promo trailer for Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the upcoming movie that features Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie finally commingling their hotness genes to create a race of oversexed hottie assassins. Or something like that. Movie looks like crap (Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever, anyone?), but who cares? It's all about the harmonic convergence of boo-tay. (via)

From the same site that brought you the rubber-band gatling gun: perhaps consider upgrading to the automated disc-blasting Room Defender. They're cheap enough to get ten per room. Ain't no one gonna penetrate your headquarters, not without they eat a few clips hot disc death. (via)

Why should you read this particular post from Fafblog? Two words: (1) leprechology (the science of leprechauns), and (2) macroleprechaun, the being that "controls all gravity through the universal leprechaun field."

Perhaps you've already heard of Sorry Everybody, which allows Democrats to express remorse to the world about the recent election. For counterpoint, enjoy We're Not Sorry, which conveys a slightly different message. Say hello to your new meme-master. (via)

Thank Jeebus that the Internet exists, or else how would we preserve cultural wonders like "Grill Skill," a 1970s McDonald's training film? I suspect some of my siblings may have had to watch this in high school, which would explain a lot about their musical tastes. (via)

Someone hacked or subverted the electronic signage in the West 4th Street subway station, though all they did with the jacked sign was tell commuters "PRETTY GIRLS DON'T RIDE THE SUBWAY." Sounds like terrorist code to me. All subway-riding pretty girls shall be sent to Gitmo. (via)

And to wrap up, music fans should definitely check out Musicplasma, a bizarre musical-interest confabulator toy thing. It's some kind of molecular musicological map. Sure, you'll find yourself typecast and perhaps you won't agree with some of the cosmological relations, but what else is new, you hipster doofus. (via)

Attention! This is the police! Please remain calm! There is nothing to see here! Well, OK, it seems doubtful that this photo from Fallujah depicts an actual policeman, and I can say that because I'm a highly trained analyst. There are all kinds of subtle clues that the careful observer can glean from this image to determine that this individual is not, in fact, a policeman, and probably has no intention of either serving or protecting. He will not be tempted by donuts and coffee. Trust me on this.

So Yasser Arafat finally died, and though his passing hasn't triggered Michael Stipe's plan to abscond with the PLO president's severed head, there's still plenty of live-head scratching going in the Mideast, in addition to quite literal wailing and gnashing of teeth. Politically, I think Arafat was a failure, and he should have been sidelined years ago to some kind of ceremonial/symbolic post in the nascent Palestinian nation. Arafat was just too much of a lightning rod to function effectively as a diplomat or head of state. Bill Clinton never forgave him for screwing up Clinton's peace initiatives, and it seems indisputable that the man voraciously clung to power in the last years of his life rather than help his countrymen take meaningful steps toward statehood. Even so, I have to admit that Arafat's impact is much more complex than many will admit. This is a pretty cogent and thoughtful article about the 2000 Camp David talks and Arafat's infamous "refusal" of an Israeli "offer" of peace. Read it.

Arafat was something of a relic, and he never seemed to grasp that the tactics of a "freedom fighter" from his golden age are impossible to distinguish from those of the contemporary terrorist. Since he could never bring himself to sufficiently repudiate Islamic terror, it was easy for his foes (in Israel and elsewhere) to dismiss him as a terrorist himself, and thus not eligible for negotiation, diplomatic engagement, or legitimacy. Even if his successors in Palestine are unable to curb the actions of terrorists, it will go a long way toward establishing their credibility if they can at least make visible, concerted efforts to do so, which is something Arafat never invested much time or effort in doing.

Now, if only similar though opposed dinosaurs like Ariel Sharon can be phased out, perhaps all sides will have the chance for some kind of realistic peace plan. If not, there is always the eminently achievable goal offered by the gentleman pictured above: the Fallujahfication of Palestine.